The Cheshire Cat
by CuttleMeFish
Summary: When an albino man with red eyes introduces himself as the White Rabbit and steals his father's pocket watch, Arthur runs after him through a secret passageway hidden behind the shelves of his home library. Waiting on the other side is the Cheshire Cat.
1. Prologue:It is the Time of Introductions

**The Cheshire Cat**

**Prologue:** It is the Time of Introductions

"No one _really_ memorable is met at the beginning of a book," the Cheshire Cat informs Arthur one morning as the British teen washes his face by a stream. He hears the flowers gossiping nearby, their petals shaking and rustling together with the rapidity of their reverberations. "Dude, see? Even the flowers agree!"

Arthur wipes at his eyes, squinting behind the leftover droplets clinging to his lashes to find the Cat with his back pressed flush against the trunk of a tree. He rests so easily on a branch, licking his index finger before flipping through Arthur's moleskin diary.

"O—Oi!" Arthur makes a run for the tree, "That's mine, you stupid cat!"

"But it's about me," the Cat blinks, bright azure eyes twinkling with mirth, though it is obvious by the glassy stare that he does not recognize Arthur's complaint.

"It's bad manners to take what isn't yours. Hasn't anyone ever taught you any manners at all?"

"Well," the blond Cat shrugs, setting the book on his lap to grab his glasses, which he proceeds to wipe with the sleeve of his white tunic shirt, "I'm a cat. A talking one, but a cat. I didn't really have like parents or anything to teach me, ya know?"

Arthur watches as the Cheshire Cat picks at the gold buttons of his dark navy vest, pouting and brooding all the while. His stomach dips.

"Fine. So you've an excuse for everything, huh? Fine. Just bloody fine. Now, then, since we're done making me feel like a heartless twat, may I please have my book?"

"Not until you promise not to start with our first meeting. That's like, totally memorable and deserves to be, I don't know, like in the middle or something, because climaxes are in the middle right?—Or are they end in the end? I guess it depends what type of _climax_ we're referring to, huh?"

Arthur flushes a light pink, stuttering, "Y—yes, well, I suppose so… I mean, I've never written a book before. But it is because our meeting was memorable that I put it at the beginning. I mean, you are, to date, perhaps the only person I know here."

The Cat frowns, throwing the book quite efficiently at Arthur's head. It hits its mark, sending the green-eyed blonde toppling back right onto the grass. Some flowers try to edge away, curbing their stemsand trying to wrap their petals into a bud. "Now that's a lie, and you know it. What about the Rabbit?"

There's a few seconds of silence as Arthur recovers from his concussion.

"I don't count a thirty second meeting in my bathroom as particularly noteworthy for a fantasy novel."

"—And what about Biscuit and Burger, huh? You've met them! And, and, and the flowers!"

The flowers chirp their agreement, making those fluttery noises that remind Arthur of a cotton cloth wiping at a window. He rolls his eyes, rubbing at his head where the corner of his book has left a red mark the size of a quid.

"It'd make no sense to begin a story with meeting a bushel of flowers."

The chirping intensifies, growing almost frantic.

"No offense," he adds, hoping to make amends.

Neither Cat nor flowers seem appeased.

"I think you just need a bit of a brainstorming session," the Cat replies, and Arthur jumps, surprised to find him now whispering close to his cheek. His nimble fingers turn the pages on his open book, flipping to an empty page where he pokes the tip of the ink pen. "Go on then."

"You're serious? This is my novel, I don't see why—"

"Go on," the Cheshire Cat keeps smiling that annoying beaming smirk of his—white teeth blinding like snow under a spring sun—making sure to add a wink that by now Arthur is sure the Cat knows he likes. And what's not to like about the way those high cheekbones just brush against beautiful long eyelashes when the Cat winks at him ever so gently and—and Arthur knows, he knows he'll spend the rest of the afternoon rewriting his own novel.

So he scribbles.

* * *

><p><strong>The third and fourth people Arthur met were Burger and Biscuit<strong>

"You own a pet cat?" Arthur muses rather loudly, thick brows furrowing tight, "Isn't that almost like slavery?"

The Cheshire Cat seems offended by the accusation, immediately ceasing the nuzzling with which he'd been bestowing his companion—a Maine Coon cat with tan fur—with affection. From the shadowing creases of the hall, another cat makes an appearance: a Scottish fold with a prominent brown spot over his right eye, and prominent brows, perhaps thicker than his barely visible whiskers.

"I don't _own_Burger, or Biscuit. Dude, what…" he pauses, waving excitedly at the Scottish fold, "Hey there, Biscuit! Had a good nap? – seriously, who _owns_ living things?"

Burger paws at the Cheshire Cat's cheek, meowing his discontent as he seeks more nuzzles.

"Uh, I… I apologize?" Arthur offers lamely, not quite sure what else he can say in the situation. "But if they're not your pets, then what are they?"

Biscuit seems particularly incensed at being dubbed a pet. His fur rises ever so perfectly, but Burger jumps off the Cat's arms, stopping to lick at Biscuit's whiskers. Somehow it seems to do the trick.

"They're my boarders, of course," the Cheshire Cat replies, already moving away from Arthur towards the kitchen counter inside the tiny tree apartment. He prepares two bowls full of what looks like tuna bites. "Biscuit and Burger just recently returned from their honeymoon," he informs Arthur with a happy skip to his step.

The cats also seem to skip along behind him, Burger's tail particularly high and fluffy in the air as he stands by his plate of food. He waits for Biscuit to try the food first. Once Biscuit has chosen his plate, Burger eats.

"Such a good husband," the Cheshire Cat—

* * *

><p>An ink blot interrupts the narrative, eating at the page until there's more <em>black<em> than words.

Arthur stops writing when he hears a disappointed sigh next to him. "Well, that's not a very good beginning either, huh?"

"I haven't even finished. For all you know it could be a wonderful beginning!"

"No it wouldn't."

Arthur clucks his tongue, trying to keep from yelling once again. "Well, if you're such an expert storyteller, why don't you tell _me_how to start?"

The Cheshire Cat shrugs, "It's not like it's that hard, Artie. Seriously. Just start from the beginning. It's always easiest to start from the beginning."

"Blimey, I—I… I can't believe you! When I started from the goddamned beginning, you bloody told me you wanted me to rewrite it because _nothing__memorable_ever happens in the beginning, and yet, did you perhaps ever stop to think that you might just not be as memorable as you consider yourself to be you stupid fat git?"

"Haha, don't be silly. I'm the Hero! Of course I'm memorable. You're just not doing this whole novel business right. Just start from the beginning."

"I bloody well did!"

"You so totally _didn__'__t_."

Arthur blinks, "the beginning, you say?"

The Cat nods, pink lips curving into a smile as he leans forward to breathe against Arthur's lips. "The beginning."

The British teen simply blushes bright red, turning away immediately and pretending to scribble at his book. "T—the beginning…"

"Yup! The beginning!" the Cat chirps, jumping from his spot on the ground to stretch his arms and yawn. "Let me know when you think you've got it. I do know like everyone here after all, so I'm sure I can help with characteri-something, or whatever for the Rabbit."

Arthur's green eyes widen, "the Rabbit… that's right, before the Rabbit. I suppose there is a story there after all…"

He hates to admit it, but the Cat was right. He looks up, hoping to thank the Cheshire Cat, but already he's disappearing into the darkness of the forest, shadowy contours eating at his shape until all Arthur can see are those blue eyes, like liquid ice fire, and that wink—oh that wink.

And he's gone.

"Well, thanks, git," he smiles to himself, sitting down to write the beginning of the beginning.

Or, more appropriately, what was on the other side, before he crossed over and found the Cheshire Cat just waiting…

**TBC**


	2. Chapter 1: A Most Curious Set of Letters

**Author ****Note: **Please don't take the writing style in the beginning too seriously? xD Think that a prim and proper Victorian lad with a poor penchant for writing is just wasting some ink dabbing at telling the story of the day his heart got broken – by a letter.

I feel a bit deceitful about this story, but I think I'm being pretty transparent so far. ^^ We'll see how it pans out. Here's Chapter 1, fresh off the press.

**The Cheshire Cat**

**Chapter ****1: **A Most Curious Set of Letters

"Arthur, a letter addressed to you has arrived," his tutor, Lord Edelstein, mentions in passing one early morning, dropping the letter in question in front of Arthur before resuming his position behind the young man's chair.

Arthur blinks, closing his notebook as his fingers grab for the yellowed envelope. He brings the letter close to his nose, breathing in the scent of wood and sea. The bitterness of salt tickles the air, and he sneezes. A passing thought makes him wonder if the secrets of the journey can be told by scent alone, and he is eager to discern the taste of the sender's perfume amongst the cacophony of smells, though he finds in agony that he cannot. He intrigues himself instead with the change in his routine.

Seldom is he known to receive correspondence on a Monday, especially not from across the Atlantic seeing as _he_ writes his letters to Amelia on Mondays, which she then typically receives also on a Monday. And he'd already received her latest reply on Friday. He wonders what could have made his dear write to him so quickly. And he panics in chaos, but then soothes himself in love.

By now the fallacies and inconsistencies of overseas post are as clear to him as the stars in Bath. But the letter he holds in his hand reminds him of the many mysteries wrapped around his fiancée. Still, he cannot hide his glee—that iridescent and annoyingly flippant thumping of his heart—and he's sure his own tutor can see it.

He's mildly embarrassed. His cheeks burn.

"It's from Amelia," Arthur beams, fingers itching to rip at the seal, though he refrains, scanning the area of hid desk instead for a proper letter opener.

It would not _do_ to be so careless with his emotions.

Lord Edelstein's eyes flicker over his pupil, unable to hide his amusement as he waves the blunt knife in front of Arthur's face. With his other hand, he holds a thick volume of contemporary philosophy open by the spine. "Do at least finish a few more lines of Latin before you venture to read it. Then you will have something to write to Amelia about that will surely make her proud," he remarks, letting his pupil grab for the knife before turning away.

"I've translated fifty lines already," the young man brags, hoping he has impressed enough. But Edelstein seems unconvinced. A pity seeing as fifty lines would hardly impress Amelia. "Surely I deserve a break." He tries again, clearing his throat, "Honest. Just examine my work."

"I remain unconvinced. Your work has been rather shoddy as of late."

"You've barely looked at it!"

"Perhaps young Lord Kirkland may venture to change his tone?"

"Pray give me a break?" Arthur's voice breaks at the seams, almost desperate. He's halfway through opening the seal. "I deserve one. I do."

"I _pray_you do," his tutor's eyes twinkle. He slams the book closed, waving at him dismissively. "I shall permit it this once. But _only_ this once. Come search for me once you've finished. I'll see if I can get Madame Brigitte to set a pot of tea for us. Today is your verbal examination, need I remind you? I hope you've been practicing your French."

"Eh," Arthur knows Edelstein understands he hates the language. Hates it all the more because he has found love _in_ English, found it in the many letters and infinity of words that detail his affection for Amelia and hers for him. He has not even caught a glimpse of it in the language of love known as French. "S—sûrement?"

"I am unconvinced. As are you," Roderich shakes his head, making his way to the door. "Best read your letter now before I change my mind over the state of your recess."

Once the door is closed, Arthur turns to the letter in his hand. Hands shaking, he rips open the seal.

He notes with a chuckle that Amelia, once again, has folded her letter – a mark of carelessness on her part, surely. But Arthur is quick to forgive her, ever-assuming that Amelia is a sweet romantic, constantly dreaming and far too preoccupied with her stories to care much for the formalities of letter writing. He looks forward to the day when he will marry her, meet her, see her and at once recognize in the secret of her kiss the true delights of bridging the gap of distance that has for so long marked their relationship, because she is in America and he is in England, and though he has never seen her face, much less felt the touch of her fingertips imprinted on his heated cheeks, he is sure that she must be perfect. Perfect in her imperfections.

But such a day was still a while away, for though Arthur was 20, Amelia was a mere 17, and the proper marrying age was 21.

However, Arthur considered himself lucky.

He _must_ be lucky. Few could say that they are happy in the marriage arranged for them, but Arthur could and mean it. After all, he'd been engaged to Amelia since he was young. And though they had yet to meet, only as recently as two years ago they had been exchanging letters, today marking—he smirks, cradling the letter gently. Their anniversary.

How inconsiderate of him to have forgotten. Amelia must have prepared her letter in advanced, timed it with such perfection, maybe with the help of her own tutors. But he would remedy his thoughtlessness, making sure to note it in his letter.

He picks the letter apart with a tremor in his fingers as he unfolds the pages much like dawn might pick at the petals of a bud to help it rise in the morn.

.

03 May 1882

Dear Arthur,

It should now be three days since you have last read a letter written by my hand, and I write now to beg that you ease your mind and heart, for I assure you that I will soon detail with as much thoroughness as I can muster the cloud that seems to have risen between us. Surely you have not noted it before my love; I hope I have not been so careless in my words, for it is written in all the guide books my tutor lines my desk with that it is a woman's duty to be both careful and doting, to not be too candid, and yet not to conceal too much either. Such contradictions, my love. And I do write it so candidly: my love.

Do you remember when we were first engaged? You must think me mad now. Neither of us could remember when we first were engaged. I was but an infant, after all, and you were but a child. The mystery of our fates was foreign to us, as foreign as was any trace of love beyond the familial. Perhaps, then, I should ask if you remember the means through which we first came to be acquainted by words.

I remember. You were loving and cordial, and your only desire seemed to be to console me and bring me refuge with the idea of your loving devotion towards me – me, but a stranger to you, someone you'd yet to meet and had only known through stories, and I do mean stories. My parents had just passed, and I was alone then, alone and poor. My manner was cold and constrained towards you at first, but you proposed that we should find refuge in each other. There was you and your kindness, and it was your kindness that clothed and fed me, as it has for many years now. It was through such means I came to love you. I dare not be more candid. I hope you understand my meaning.

As you know, my dear, I shall be of proper age come July 4th, a mere month from now. What I am to detail may be unorthodox to you. I was informed most recently that in England, it is customary that a young girl should only receive her inheritance at the age of 21, but in a way, the fact that I am to receive my inheritance at 18 should give you some clue as to our situation. Alas, as we have always known it, with my coming of age shall also come a large inheritance, and I shall no longer have to force upon you the position of patron. I pray you do not take this to mean that I do not love you, for I do, more perhaps than I could detail to you, even in confidence. But in confidence I must detail something soon, a secret I have kept for these two long years when it was necessary to do so in order to survive.

Your last note opened my eyes to the folly and wrong of the course I have pursued of late. All week I have been pacing my floor, trying to decide what course it was my duty to pursue, and in spite of my tutor's wishes, I have decided to answer you as frankly as you deserve.

I will not attempt to excuse myself, for I deserve your anger, but I will only say that I was myself deceived in my own feelings and thoughtlessness, and in such sin I have trespassed against you, not just in our beginnings but even at present. Once it was for money. Now it is for love. Closer intimacy has proved my error, and I cannot deny that though I wish to marry you, I foresee a life of misery for us both, all due in part to my lying ways.

I know that honor binds me to you. I do not dare ask for my release from commitment. I do not want it. But if we are to live in love and faith, I must beg that you ask no questions of me and pray listen instead to my request.

Come July 4th, one month from now, the day of my birth and the day of my freedom from your wealth, I will leave our engagement entirely in your hands. A gentleman shall come meet you from America. He will have a story to tell you – of me and of you. It will be one of a most fantastical nature. You must listen to it all, listen to it carefully, and then decide if your love for me is strong enough that you should want to remain bound to me in eternal engagement, for I warn you now my love that regardless of your decision, we will never marry, nor perhaps ever know the joys of communal living.

Until such a time, I've deemed it best our correspondence should come to a halt. I did not want to stop writing you in fear that you might mistake my coldness for cold feet. Here now you have testament to the true reasons behind my changes. Here, then, I have given them.

Failing to refrain from candidness, as always, I am, Ever your friend, Amelia Jones.

.

"She dumped you in a letter?" the Cat blinked, azure eyes blurred with shock while his tail waved from side to side. He'd been sitting attentively the entire time, waiting for Arthur to reach some conclusion before interrupting. "T—that's. But why? This is a most curious of beginnings, Artie. _Did_ some fine American lad come meet you like she said?"

"Seeing as July 4th was the day that silly Rabbit stole my father's watch," Arthur sighed, looking down at his hands, "I don't know if he did or not. I've a feeling he must have. But I can't quite define it into an affirmative."

The Cat nodded, scratching behind Hamburger's ears. His own ears twitched, whiskers following along as he furrowed his brows, concerned. Arthur had never seen him look so serious before. Hamburger, too, seemed to have fallen ill with worry. "Did you write back?"

Arthur nodded, picking at a few strands of grass near the tip of his shoe.

"Well?" the Cat probed, edging closer to the British blonde. Their shoulders barely touched. Arthur flinched when their auras rubbed together.

"I wrote hundreds of letters. That _might _be an understatement. Perhaps I wrote a thousand, draft after draft, and none seemed to me to detail how I felt. I went mad with grief."

"Quite literally?"

Arthur shrugged, stifling his chuckle, "Perhaps."

The Cat rolled his eyes, huffing. Arthur was unsure if he detected a mild hint of jealousy in his posture. "Such silliness," the Cat tisked, removing Hamburger from his lap, "Humans, so silly, all of you…You'd never met the girl. What if she'd been a troll? Or just annoying, huh? Or all types of other fails?"

"Ah, but see, there's the thing," Arthur's voice grew soft, tender, until it was but a needle of fondness hidden in the sea of grass and green. Hamburger crawled close to Arthur's thigh, nuzzling it gently. The Cat tilted his head, confused. "See, it is one thing to love someone by sight and another to love by touch. When you have seen someone and loved them instantly, you can then always force yourself to _cease_ to love them. Humans," he paused, ripping at some grass before throwing it at the river in front of them. The blades flowed like boats over the trickle, wading so far into the sunset that Arthur had to squint to catch a hint of green in the endless blue. "Humans, we are full of _and _filled by disappointment."

There was silence between them. It was comfortable, filled with joint regret.

"I—It's like we're always hungry, and we are fed by it sometimes. We are quick to find it and see it and discern it to the point that we can trick ourselves to fall _out_ of love, _into_ hate—you can say, 'Oh, but her hair is too dark,' or 'Once her cheeks were rosier, now they pale in the Sun,' or maybe 'Just look at those biscuits…'"

At the last word, Hamburger raised his head, searching the perimeter for his husband – Biscuit. Arthur chuckled, petting the poor animal. Biscuit had taken a small holiday, it seemed, leaving his husband behind to care after their litter box. He was overdue to return any day now, or so Arthur hoped for Hamburger's sake.

"When you love by touch," he continued, feeling almost as if Hamburger could understand him. The animal meowed, angling his head so that Arthur's fingers could dip into the thick coat of his mane, "by smell, by everything that is not sight—"

"But you could see her letters," the Cat interrupted, beaming with pride.

"Okay, everything that is not _just _sight."

"So?" the Cat bragged, "It was love by sight anyway! And why such silliness? Love is love _is _love!"

Arthur clucked his tongue, ignoring the interruption. "I could not find in her any imperfections. I had loved her mind before her body. I could see nothing, but feel everything, and when you are but a child… and alone… how do you give up on someone that makes you feel, well, everything?"

"You weren't a child. You aren't a child. You are twenty! A twenty year old in love with a fantasy!"

"Yes, I suppose that is right, but still, how to give up on everything?"

"Simple," the Cat's tail bristled, slapping Arthur, perhaps unintentionally. Arthur would never quite know. But he listened, green eyes wide and questioning as the Cat looked away, tail still a pendulum of movement and doubt. "You remember that all you ever really had were abstractions. And then you remember you really had nothing at all, not a thing there to begin with. Because she wasn't real. That's quite obvious."

"She was real to me…"

"Yes, but you said yourself you are mad."

"I said I went mad with grief. It is but an expression."

"Oh," the Cat stood, stretching out his arms for Hamburger, who leaped into them. "But you must be mad. Else, you wouldn't be here."

.

15 May 1882

Dear Amelia,

Tell me frankly what estranges you to me. Is there some affair that troubles you at home? – I know not what business could trouble you so, but if my love can ever comfort you in trouble, believe me it will not be wanting.

You ask me for patience. Such is what I will give. Pray, though, do not cease our interaction. You ask that I wait for this American of yours. I will, if it should so please you. You need not worry that I shall not want to marry you if he is to say something unruly of your character. I know you best, or so my heart tells me. If it is marriage you fear, then I am pressed to give my apologies at once. It was never my intention to frighten you with my boldness, but I could not help confessing my hopes, my desires, all which run deep in the desire that we shall someday be wed. As I near the age of 21, is it all that fills my thoughts. But if it is this, my dear, that ails you, then pray rest assured we need not marry right away. We have a lifetime ahead of us, my dear. One I assure you I intend to live eternally by your side.

In patient wait, I remain yours, Arthur.


End file.
